


Every Morning After the End of the World (The Disaster Recovery Remix)

by igrockspock



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Administrative Assistants Rule the World, Background Pike/Kirk, Bechdel Test Pass, Gen, Interstellar Politics, People Who Suck at Emotions, Physical Disability, Remix, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4490904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Narada Incident, Number One tries to prevent war from breaking out on the edge of the Neutral Zone, and Jennifer Colt tries to survive her assignment as Admiral Pike's new assistant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Morning After the End of the World (The Disaster Recovery Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [topaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Shining On The Quay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/271638) by [t_fic (topaz)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic), [topaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz), [topaz119 (topaz)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119). 



The day after the _Narada_ is coffee and casualty lists and finding ways to lie to her crew.

It's maximum velocity toward the edge of the Neutral Zone, _captain, she can't hold this speed much longer_ , and _find a way to make it happen._ Her fingers curl tight around the arms of the captain's chair. The knuckles are white when she looks down, every delicate bone of her hand standing out in sharp relief.

"I'll be in my ready room," she says and scans the casualty list in solitude from behind her desk.

Chris is alive and she's a traitor for looking for his name above all others. Chris is alive and all the reports say [redacted], and something terrible happened to him but One doesn't know what it is. She won't for a long time because the _Yorktown_ went on radio silence about six seconds after the first reports came through. _Vulcan destroyed, seven starships lost, border protection grid dismantled, Romulan aggressors, proceed to designated coordinates, await further orders. FULL COMMUNICATION BLACKOUT EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY._

Her eyes are burning and her coffee's cold when the door hisses open and Phil Boyce appears in her office.

"You have to tell the crew," he says, and his eyes are tired but kind.

"Tell them what?" she asks, but disingenuity was never her thing.

"Whatever you know," he says and the edges of his voice are frayed. "Rumors are spreading."

"How?" One asks. She is the captain of this ship and she barely knows what happened, and who could possibly know more than she does?

"Do you know how many people got some 'are you okay' ping from home the second Vulcan winked out of the sky? Whoever scrolled through their newsfeed ten seconds after the _Narada_ showed up in the sky over San Francisco got an eyeful. This isn't 2097 anymore, One. Communication happens fast."

One swallows and her throat is still dry and she is terrible because she gets to be grateful her best friend is alive, gets to be grateful that the _Yorktown_ was far enough away to be spared.

She assembles her crew in the cargo bay and stands above them on a dais she's never used before. She tells the truth: "I will tell you the truth because you deserve it. I will spare you the platitudes because they are an insult. And then I will tell you to suck it up and get back to work, because we have a mission to perform."

***

The day after the _Narada_ , Starfleet Academy is quiet. Jennifer Colt lays in her bed, staring at the empty bed across the room. The covers are rumpled. Her roommate's pajamas are still lying on the floor, and there's a half-eaten muffin on the night table. She presses her thumb against the home button on her comm, refreshes her newsfeed for the tenth time in as many minutes. She's memorized the facts by now: rescue crews are still combing the stars for survivors. A fully loaded escape pod contains enough oxygen to survive for seven days. A human in a space suit might last twenty-four hours. Neither escape pods nor space suits have sufficient thruster power to escape the gravitational pull of a black hole.

She looks at the empty bed again and thinks _please come home._

***

The memorial wall springs up in the corridor outside the rec room, an endless panorama of holograms winking happier times. Poems printed on old-fashioned paper flutter in the reclaimed air, and One assigns a yeoman to keep the physical mementoes away from the emergency exits and maintenance hatches. On a single panel of the bulkhead, she finds three teddy bears, uncountable ribbons, and a worn-out pair of socks that are apparently a private memorial to one Ensign Robert B. Yates.

Phil Boyce is responsible for the gratitude wall that appears on the starboard side of the mess.

"To give the crew something positive to look at every day," he says and waves off One's thanks. "You take care of the mission, Captain, and I'll keep an eye on the crew."

She wonders later if he'd known how inadequate she felt, faced with two hundred seventy-four grieving souls.

The communications blackout is over now, and One scrolls past an endless stream of flowery memorials on the social media walls of the dead. Their smiles lit up a room; they were taken all too soon. One knows the dead too: the captain of every destroyed starship, just for starters. She has no desire to post anything publicly and can't think of anything to write to their families privately either. Instead she pins a holo of herself with Chris in the furthest corner of the gratitude wall and touches it every night after dinner.

She messages him every evening before her four hours of doctor-mandated sleep: mission reports, news articles he might like, finally a picture of a kitten riding a robotic vacuum cleaner with a cheerful caption printed in block letters.

His response is two words: _Fuck you_.

 _So nice to finally hear from you_ , she says.

He starts writing more often after that.

***

There are few bodies to bury, so Starfleet substitutes a vast field of empty chairs. The chairs of the dead far outnumber the chairs for the living, and Jennifer wonders if Starfleet had considered that when they planned the memorial service. The news drone overhead certainly thinks it's a dramatic image. She'd only allowed herself one glimpse at her communicator before the ceremony began. The photograph had already gone viral.

The speaker is old and traverses the stage slowly. His black robes billow in the wind as he steps behind the podium. A gasp runs through the crowd when he finally turns to face the audience. He is an ancient version of Commander Spock.

"A human astronomer once said we are all made of stars. It is perhaps fitting that so many of your classmates now rest among them," he says. 

The cadet next to her is crying, and Jennifer passes him a tissue and loops her hand through his even though she's never seen him before. It makes her feel useful for the first time in a week.

***

One capitulates to the crew's demand to stream the memorial service in the mess hall. At least the ten-second delay means Phil can screen out the god awful photo of the surviving cadets outnumbered by uncountable empty chairs. 

She watches a clip of the eulogy on a hand-held screen on the bridge. 

"Is that Commander Spock?" her yeoman asks, and One squints at the wrinkled face on the screen.

That night, she drifts to sleep pondering the possibilities of time loops and singularities. It's the first time since the _Narada_ that she's closed her eyes and thought of anything other than the faces of the dead and combat maneuvers to escape whatever terrifying weapon the Romulans might have in store. 

Her communicator pings at 0300, and One shoves her feet into her boots as she answers the comm.

"What's happening?" she asks. The _Mandela_ had exchanged potshots with a war bird last night; Starfleet Intelligence thought the Romulans were testing their defenses.

"I've intercepted a transmission from Romulus, sir," Ensign Barrett says. "I think you'll want to see it."

"Sound the yellow alert," One says. Better not to be caught unprepared.

"It's not necessary," Barrett says, and One freezes with her uniform tunic halfway over her head. Barrett clears his throat. "I'm sorry, sir, I mean...the transmission isn't like that. It's not a threat."

"I should hope you are right about that, Ensign," One says. There's ice in her voice, but she doesn't tell him to turn on the siren.

"It didn't come from an official channel," Barrett says as soon as she steps on bridge. 

_Then why did you wake me at 0300?_ One thinks, clenching her jaw. Barrett's new, graduated from the Academy just last year. Still, One makes a policy of hearing what her crew has to say before she chastises them.

"Then where did it come from?" she asks, forcing her voice into some semblance of patience.

"I found it piggybacked to a government propaganda broadcast," Barrett says. "I haven't finished sharpening it yet, but the pictures are clear enough to make out."

He touches a button, and the image that appears is staticky but easy enough to see. It's a group of young Romulans, their faces solemn, their fingers split in a Vulcan salute. Next is a family of four, then two elderly Romulans, followed by a huddle of school children leaning over a camera that's slightly askew. Some are holding flowers. Others have candles. A few have placards written in a curling script that tickles something in the back of One's brain. But no matter who is in the picture or where they are, their right hands are raised to say live long and prosper.

"The UT is having a hard time parsing the script on the placards," Barrett says, snapping One back to reality.

"Pause and zoom in," One says, blinking at the unexpected moisture in her eyes. She squints at the script, drumming her fingers on the console. She'd seen it before, when she'd interned at the Vulcan Science Academy. Suddenly the answer snaps into place.

"We grieve with thee. It's the script that was in use at the time of Surak. The last time Romulans and Vulcans were one people." She stands up, wiping her hands on her trousers. "Leak this. I want it playing in the mess hall at breakfast, I want it beamed to every Federation starship, I want it broadcast on every media outlet. Now."

"Sir?" Barrett looks up at her with wide eyes. "I thought all communications from Romulus were to be forwarded directly to Starfleet?"

"And we will forward it to Starfleet," she says, biting off every word. "But we will also forward it to everyone else in the Federation at the same time, and the communications team will devote themselves fully to uncovering any further hidden broadcasts." She taps the screen. "Listen to me, Ensign, this is the difference between war and peace."

***

Jennifer curls up on the corner of the rec room sofa and watches the vids from Romulus for the hundredth time. There are three of them now, all with more than a billion views. The conservative wack jobs on the news have stopped claiming that Romulans were celebrating the destruction of Vulcan, and the rhetoric has shifted from 'act of war' to 'lone-wolf terrorism.' If anyone asks why she watches the vids so much, she mutters vaguely about her thesis, but the truth is, they make her feel less alone. Somehow the grief of distant strangers on a hostile world counts for more than the condolences of all her family and friends combined.

Jennifer winces as a tennis ball sails through the air and lands on the end table, perilously close to her teacup. A blonde-haired cadet snatches it back and with a hasty "sorry" and a winning grin. Her old dorm had been eerily silent, and she and the other survivors had been sleeping in the rec area to avoid their roommates' empty beds. Now that everyone's back together, the noise is almost impossible to endure. Hikaru Sulu is fencing with people in the stairwell, Pavel Chekov is having a vodka-fueled math war with a bunch of Andorians, and Christine Chapel is baking endless trays of muffins in the tiny kitchen. 

Jennifer gets it. They're alive, and they've all been weighed down by grief for too long. Almost everybody here is a hero -- especially the crew of the _Enterprise_ \-- and they deserve to celebrate now that the worst is past. The problem is, Jennifer doesn't deserve to be with them.

A green finger presses the stop button on her vid, and Jennifer looks up to see Gaila. They've never even spoken before, but she knows who Gaila is. _Everyone_ knows Gaila. The first Orion to enter Starfleet Academy. The girl who wears metal bikinis when she's off duty. The one who performs sex acts that the English language doesn't even have words for. And that was all before she became the hero of the _Farragut_ by landing an escape pod on the _Narada_ and hiding there till the battle was over. The eight people with her were the only survivors of the whole ship.

"You spend way too much time alone with that thing," Gaila says, snatching the padd out of Jennifer's hand. She collapses onto the couch next to Jennifer, tapping the padd absently against her bare midriff. "Tell me, sister, what gives. Why always alone?"

Jennifer bites her lip. She's spent the last three days running from every "where were you during the Battle of Vulcan?" conversation and now she's going to spill her guts to some random girl she's never even spoken to before?

Gaila smiles expectantly. For reasons that Jennifer doesn't understand, she smells like cookies. Her attention is dazzling.

"You can tell me, I swear," Gaila says. She looks out at the rec room, where Chekov and the Andorians are screaming about math and the tennis match is still raging. "Nobody's going to hear anyway."

Jennifer swallows. "I don't deserve to be here with all of you...survivors. Heroes. Whatever," she says. Her cheeks are burning. "I wasn't even at the battle."

"Where were you?" Gaila asks.

"Starfleet Medical," Jennifer says. "I got drunk the night before. _Really_ drunk. I fell down the stairs and broke my leg, and I woke up strapped into a regen unit with a note about mandatory alcohol responsibility training."

The casualty ward had been eerily quiet when she'd awakened. There were only two nurses left in Minor Emergency. Then someone had turned on the news.

Gaila shrugs. "We all survived for stupid reasons, okay? I got kicked out of command first year. I hosted an orgy the night before some huge test, and I fell asleep in the middle of the sim. Starfleet did _not_ think that was cute, let me tell you. Next thing I knew, I was transferred to engineering. When we got hit, somebody in a gold shirt shoved me in an escape pod. He died. If I'd stayed on command track, I would've been the one staying behind to make sure everybody else got out alive."

Jennifer shakes her head. "At least you were there. I didn't do anything."

Gaila snorts. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I'm sure the universe will repay you with some terrible life-threatening ordeal later. And for now? You're way too cute to brood in the corner, so you can come to my orgy or help poor Christine over there with her muffin madness. What's it going to be?"

Gaila fixes her with a stare that's warm and commanding all at once, which Jennifer didn't even know was possible.

"The baking," she says. Group sex isn't really her thing, but she smiles so Gaila won't be offended. "They should've left you on the command track."

Gaila shrugs and smiles back. "I'll get back there someday. When the time is right."

***

If it's not the Romulans, it's the Klingons. 

The stars outside One's window are long, blue streaks. The deck is vibrating with the force of sustained maximum warp, which is technically not supposed to happen. Cait Berry in Engineering has reassured her repeatedly that the ship is not actually about to fall apart -- or rather, if it _did_ fall apart, it would happen slowly, so there would be time to launch the escape pods first. 

"You would think that since the Federation and the Klingons both lost half their fleets, this would be the time to make peace instead of engaging in an intergalactic pissing contest that might start a war," One says to Chris.

He frowns in slow motion on her computer screen. The time lag to Earth is just long enough to be irritating.

"Nobody wants to get caught with their pants down, now that we know whole planets can be destroyed." He sighs. "And especially since the _Narada_ penetrated Earth's defenses..."

Now it's One's turn to frown. "Do I need to tell you again that it's not your fault? Because if it were your fault, I would tell you. We both know I have no pity."

The corners of Chris' lips twitch upward in a faint smile. "Believe me, I appreciate that, One. Actually, you have no _idea_ how much I appreciate that. If one more person looks at me with that toxic mixture of pity and hero worship, I'll...do something unpleasant to them as soon as I regain fine motor control."

"Well, I'm glad one person the galaxy appreciates my complete lack of facial expressions," One says. "If I were suffused with a toxic mixture of pity and hero worship -- that's quite an elegant phrase, by the way -- I assure you you'll never know."

"Thank you. That's very touching," Chris says. "Now I'm putting on my worried captain face. Are you sleeping at all? Because you look worse than me, and I just came out of two surgeries and a medically induced coma."

"Funny, Phil threatened to put me in a medically induced coma last week," One says, smiling wryly. She shakes her head. "But no, I haven't been sleeping. Half of our friends are dead, and one misstep on the edge of the Klingon Neutral Zone starts a war. It seems irresponsible to sleep when the fate of the galaxy is at stake."

Chris looks wistful. "I'd be doing the same if I were out there, so I know I'm not going to convince you with a rational argument. So how about we make a deal -- I'll at least _try_ to get along with the next physical therapist who walks through the door if you'll at least try going to bed tonight."

One nods. "It's a deal. You know I have to say this once, Chris. I'm glad you're alive, and I hope you are too."

He swallows. "I'll get there. Eventually. Or so the psychiatrist assures me. Come home in one piece, alright?"

One actually _does_ go to sleep that night, but she wakes up covered in sweat. The air in her quarters feels like a blanket on her skin. She opens her eyes to the dim blue glow of emergency lights, and when she puts her feet on the floor, she can't feel the engines vibrating anymore.

She hits the comm button next to her bed without looking. "Berry? Give me a status report."

"Complete dilithium meltdown resulting from sustained high warp, Captain," she says matter-of-factly. "That means we need a new dilithium combustion chamber, and that means a trip to Utopia Planetia."

"You're telling me we have to go back to Earth," One says slowly. "At impulse power."

"It'll be a scenic journey," Berry replies, her voice obscenely cheerful for this hour of the night. "And hey, the ship didn't fall apart. It just melted a little."

***

Jennifer's sitting on the rec room sofa, drumming her fingers on the screen of her padd. Next to her, Gaila and Christine Chapel are doing the same thing. The whole room is vibrating with nervous energy. Starfleet is releasing permanent duty assignments today.

Nyota Uhura's email chimes first. She doesn't say anything about her assignment, but she looks pleased. Suddenly the room is alive with beeps and buzzes, and everyone is staring at their communicator.

Christine squeals. " _Enterprise!_ Infectious disease specialist!"

Gaila gives her a high five. "Riverside Shipyard!" she exclaims. "Just like I wanted."

Both women turn to face Jennifer. She hasn't checked her email yet, even though the new message notification is glowing brightly on her screen. She knows she's not going to get the assignment of her dreams; starship assignments are few and far between with so many ships lost in the Battle of Vulcan, and most of them are going to cadets with combat experience. But she'd gotten top marks in all her interstellar relations courses, and she speaks three major Federation languages. Surely that will be enough to land her in the Diplomatic Corps, even if it's a low-level position.

She opens the email.

"Personal assistant to Admiral Pike," she reads slowly. "Effective immediately."

She doesn't bother staying to commiserate with Gaila and Christine; their intentions are good, but nothing they say is going to make her feel any better about being relegated to the secretarial pool. The quartermaster issues her a brand new red uniform, and she changes in the bathroom without bothering to take the obligatory first-day-of-duty selfie. Fake smiling has never been her strong suit anyway.

Admiral Pike is sitting up in his chair when she arrives at Starfleet Medical.

"Ensign Jennifer Colt, reporting for duty," she says, saluting with one hand while passing him a copy of her orders with the other.

"At ease, Ensign," Pike says smoothly. "Pleased to meet you, and also sorry. I'm afraid Admiral Beckett saw fit to offer me the finest assistant he could find, and you're the lucky victim. I can't imagine babysitting an invalid was the assignment you were hoping for."

Jennifer swallows. She hadn't expected to be confronted about her reluctance so openly.

"It's fine, sir," she murmurs hastily. If she's got to be someone's assistant, she's going to be the best damn assistant she can be. At some point, maybe she'll even figure out how to smile about it. 

There's no mistaking the look of irritation that flits across Pike's face. He might even be grinding his teeth. 

"Do you know the worst thing about being in here, Ensign?" he asks, gesturing around the hospital room.

Jennifer shakes her head. Diplomacy training or no, she really can't think of a safe answer to that question.

"It's the frequency with which people feel compelled to lie to protect my feelings," he says.

"Well, sir, if you want the truth, I've never baby-sat anyone before," she says. "I lost three gerbils in the house when I was seven years old, and my parents forbid me to take care of living things after that. I even killed my cactus. If you actually need a babysitter, you'll probably die."

Pike actually smiles at that. "I think you and I will get along just fine."

***

By the time the _Yorktown_ limps into dry dock, Chris is walking with biomechanical braces and staying in Starfleet housing, which is a relief for both of them. She hates hospitals, and he would have hated her seeing him in a hospital bed. An admiral living among ensigns and junior lieutenants isn't normal, but it's close enough to pass.

Chris has ordered a sumptuous array of Chinese take-out and there's a bottle of something blue and dangerous at the end of the counter, and that _is_ normal. For almost as long as they've been in Starfleet, they've had a rule: whoever makes it home from deployment first provides all the food and booze, without comment about how much a recently-returned comrade-at-arms might consume.

One eyes Chris over a carton of General Tso's chicken and asks, "Sit rep?"

"For Starfleet or for me?" Chris asks.

One rolls her eyes. "I just spent the entire day with Admiralty. I'm familiar with the situation. Admiral Marcus thinks war with the Klingons is inevitable, so it will probably happen. I was asking about you."

She fixes him with her very best captainly stare, which she hopes is enough to forestall the platitudes and half-truths he throws at everyone else.

Chris pokes halfheartedly at a container of fried rice. He's lost weight, which isn't surprising considering his near-complete lack of interest in the food.

"Starfleet has me pushing around files and teaching intro classes, and they've enslaved some poor ensign as my personal assistant, even though she graduated magna cum laude with specialties in diplomacy and communications. Her name's Jennifer Colt. You'd like her."

"Send me her file when she's up for reassignment," One says, trading the now-empty carton of chicken for a tray of pepper beef. "My gamma shift communication officer is distressingly green."

She looks around the small living room. A shelf on the wall is lined with antique books with red leather covers, and a copy of _Treasure Island_ is lying on the coffee table.

"You've taken up reading ancient literary classics in your spare time, I see," she says. "You were never much for fiction before."

Chris shifts in his seat and clears his throat. "They're not mine. I'm keeping them for a...friend."

"Uh-huh," One says. "Are you blushing?"

"Flushing is a side effect of the veritable pharmacy I swallow every morning," Chris says. Then he shakes his head. "Actually, the books belong to Jim Kirk. He kissed me before the _Enterprise_ deployed, if you really must know."

Well, _that's_ interesting. "And I take it you never spoke of it again?" she asks.

Chris nods, although he doesn't look entirely happy about the situation. "We were drinking. He sneaked a bottle of sake into my hospital room the last time he visited. It didn't mean anything."

One blinks. "There is a _lot_ of information in that sentence, Chris. When you say 'the last time he visited,' exactly how many previous visits were there?"

Chris waves an airy hand. "I don't know. One or two a week? He thought he was being a good captain, visiting injured crew. You and I would both do the same."

"Oddly enough, I've never kissed an injured member of my crew," One says. "Have you?"

Chris rolls his eyes. "He's twenty-five, One, and I told you we'd been drinking. Can we move on now?"

"As soon as you admit it meant something to you," One says. "If it didn't, you would've given him a very kind talk about infatuation with superior officers, and you certainly wouldn't be keeping his books."

Chris grimaces. "I'm more than twice his age, and although I'd like to think I hide it well, I'm a mess right now. That's not what a twenty-five-year old kid is looking for."

"Do you believe your own bullshit, Chris, or do you just think I will? He left what I can only assume are his most valuable possessions in your care," she says, pointing at the books standing neatly on the living room shelf. "That's an excuse to see you as soon as the _Enterprise_ comes back to Earth."

"They were an impulse purchase, and they exceeded his mass allowance. He didn't have a climate-controlled space to store them," Chris says, sounding tired. "Next subject, please."

One ignores the defiant expression on Chris' face; she's never been good at backing down when she has a point to prove. "You're right. There's no way he could have rented a storage locker on a captain's salary. All I'm saying is that you should talk to him. You're too good at ignoring anything that sounds too complicated to figure out."

"Right. Because _you_ would never ignore something complicated involving emotions," Chris says sharply.

One opens her mouth to respond, but Chris shakes his head, looking chagrinned. "I'm sorry, One, I shouldn't have lashed out."

"It's alright," One says, slumping back in her chair. "You have a point. Commander Ivanov, Captain Warren, Admiral Sato...they're just _gone_. I don't believe in the afterlife. I don't know what to say to their families. There's nothing I can do for any of them, so I don't think about them at all."

Chris refills her wine glass and scoots it across the table toward her. "I don't think either one of us knows how to deal with the situation we've been dealt," he says, his voice calmer now. "And you're doing what you always do, which is focusing on the mission. It's not a terrible coping strategy. In fact, I think it's what Starfleet trained us for."

One twirls the wine glass between her fingers. "My crew needs more than successful missions right now, Chris. Everyone lost someone. Most of them lost more than one person. I have two hundred seventy-four grieving souls on board my ship. How can I help them when I don't know how to process my own grief?"

"Maybe that's not what they need from you, One," Chris says. "I can think of a hundred people who'd like to be my soft shoulder to cry on, and only a handful who still treat me like a functioning human being. If you're giving your crew a reason to keep getting out of bed in the morning, you're doing more than you think."

"Would I sound ungrateful if I asked for chocolate on top of the pep talk?" One asks, feeling a little lighter.

"There's something called Death By Chocolate in the fridge," Chris says. "And only because I know you won't pity me, I'm going to confess that walking across the kitchen sounds like an insurmountable task right now, so you're going to have to go get it."

They don't bother slicing a cake. One dives in with a fork and demolishes a good third of it on her own, while Chris manages a few bites in between sips of whatever's in the dangerous bottle of blue liquor. 

The alcohol must be going to her head because she says, "I'll make you a deal. I'll let Phil refer me to a grief counselor if you promise to talk to Jim about the kiss."

Chris pauses with his glass halfway to his mouth, looking indignant. "That's blackmail, One."

"All's fair in love and war," she says with a shrug. "If I'm going to see a therapist, I'd like to know someone else is miserable too."

"When you put it that way..." Chris says, looking resigned. "I want proof the appointment exists before I talk to Jim."

"Done," One says, pushing her wine glass aside in favor of whatever the blue drink is. "To Commander Ivanov, maker of the foulest engine room rotgut known to humankind."

Getting drunk with her oldest friend won't fix anything, but at least it's a way to start talking about she's lost -- and to appreciate the one she still has.

***

Jennifer spends her afternoons making guttural noises in the back of her throat because Admiral Pike had ordered her to learn Tellarite. Earlier in her assignment, when Pike had been between surgeries and taking more drugs, she'd become quite the online shopping expert. Now that he's awake and functional, he insists that she "at least learn something useful if she's stuck in an assignment that's beneath her." On the one hand, it sucked: Tellarite makes her throat hurt, and she doesn't have the time to stalk coupon codes for designer shoes anymore. On the other hand -- the most important hand -- it's a relief that Pike knows organizing his schedule only takes half her brain power.

Starfleet has him teaching two sections of Beginning Command Strategy, so there's not actually much work for either of them to do. He huffs a lot about being babied, but privately, Jennifer thinks Starfleet had made the right decision. However much he wants to pretend he's back to full strength, he still comes back from his daily classes with an uneven gait and a gray tinge to his skin.

Really, she'd like to wait till he's had lunch and maybe a nap before talking about Starfleet's latest unpalatable request, but he's only going to get angry if he thinks she's coddling him, so...

"Sir, now that you're better, Admiral Barnett wants to discuss the details of your official promotion ceremony," she says.

Pike stops in front of her desk, and Jennifer pretends not to notice how heavily he's leaning against it. Officially, the chair in front of her desk is for acquaintances who drop by for lunch; unofficially, she'd put it there for Pike. Not that he ever uses it.

"Tell him no," Pike says.

Jennifer purses her lips. "We've been doing that for eight weeks, sir. I imagine that's why Admiral Barnett came himself. Well, that and he wanted to discuss media. He said there would be photographers, but no questions."

Pike's lips are a thin, flat line. "They don't want me talking to the press."

Officially, Pike is a hero. Unofficially, it's kind of awkward that he gave away the border protection codes, even if he was under the influence of a mind control parasite. Starfleet doesn't like to give people the chance to ask questions.

"Are you saying you _want_ to talk to the media, sir? Because there are about a hundred interview requests in your mailbox right now. I even got an email from Playgirl today," Jennifer says. Pike smiles very faintly at that, and she adds, "They say they don't require nudity."

"I'll keep that under advisement, Ensign," he says. His smile fades to a grimace. "And tell Admiral Barnett that I don't require a ceremony. Waking up in the hospital wearing admiral's stripes was quite enough for me."

Jennifer sighs. "If we say no, they're just going to put it on your schedule anyway, and you'll look like a peevish child if you don't show up. I suggest that we invite a few reporters to your class next week. They can take pictures of you doing something you like, you won't be surrounded by people who annoy you, and we can serve cake afterwards. Everyone wins."

"Your diplomatic talents are wasted here, Ensign," he says.

Jennifer stares down at his hand clutching the edge of her desk. It looks like it's actually shaking. "For the love of god, sir, there's a chair right next to you. Just sit down."

She's half expecting Pike to yell at her, or at least to argue, but he does as he's told. "Here, eat the rest of my quesadilla," she says, passing him the take-away container perched on the edge of her desk.

Pike doesn't take it. "I thought we had a strict no babysitting arrangement, Ensign."

"A no babysitting arrangement implies that you will not actually need babysitting because you're taking care of yourself." She puts the quesadilla on the desk next to him. "And anyway, this is two tortillas stuck together with processed cheese. If that's actually babysitting, children are much lower maintenance than I thought."

Pike grimaces, but he takes a bite. "It's possible I overdid when the _Yorktown_ stopped in this weekend."

Jennifer blinks and tries to decide if Pike is telling her that he's hungover. She passes him a bottle of water just in case, and he accepts it without complaint.

"To tell the truth, I'm probably going to be pretty useless today. If you could get Jim Kirk on the line for me, you can take the rest of the afternoon off," Pike says.

"That's not necessary, sir," she says hastily. "I'm more than happy to stay here and study."

Pike gives her a long, appraising look. "You know, that's the third time in two weeks you've refused time off," he says. "Is there a reason for that, Ensign?"

"Is there any chance you'd be satisfied with a pleasant half-truth?" Jennifer asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

"No, Ensign," Pike says sternly. Then his face softens. "As I recall, you were here the day I decided I didn't need the cane anymore, and I tripped and sliced my head open on the corner of the desk. I think we can manage a little honesty between us."

"That's fair," Jennifer says. She takes a deep breath. "I don't like taking time off because all my friends are dead, so I don't know what to do with myself. I know I probably should've made more friends in the last six months, but instead I got a cat."

"How's that working for you?" Pike asks.

"I posted a vid of her in a box last night. It got modest but satisfying number of likes."

"I see," Pike says. That's all. And he keeps looking at her with kind blue eyes, like he's her commanding officer but maybe also a really nice older uncle. It's a good trick.

"It's lonely, sir," she says. "When everyone you know is gone...well, it's hard to know who you are anymore. I thought defining yourself through your friends was something you grew out of when you stopped being sixteen and stupid, but it turns out your friends are where you keep all your stories and secrets and inside jokes, and everything you became after you turned eighteen and left the backwater colony where you were born. Then it just seems kind of daunting to start all over again, and that's how you end up with no friends except an extremely unruly orange cat."

"I can assure you that you have at least one friend here in San Francisco," Pike says, looking at her meaningfully. 

"Thank you, sir," Jennifer chokes out around the lump in her throat. She is _not_ going to cry.

Pike stands up, looking much steadier than he had before. "Come on, there's something I want to show you."

"You don't need to call the _Enterprise _?" Jennifer asks. "I pulled up their schedule earlier, and it's beta shift there now, just after dinner. It would probably be a good time to speak with Captain Kirk."__

__Pike winces. "Did Captain One come to visit you while I was at class?"_ _

__"Terrifying woman with long brown hair? Yes, she came just before Admiral Barnett and said...well, here, I wrote it down. 'Admiral Pike is going to avoid making an important call. Tell him I upheld my end of the bargain. It was as awful as I thought it would be, so you'd better make good on your half. Your ensign is as impressive as you said she was, and if she makes you get this done, I'll find her a spot on the _Yorktown._ '" Jennifer blushes. "I didn't make up that last part, I swear. And for the record, I don't think you should cross her."_ _

__"I suppose not," Pike says. "Give me half an hour, then you and I are going on a trip to San Francisco Bay."_ _

__Pike emerges from his office half an hour later, his expression unreasonable. Jennifer's mind is whirring with questions; it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the call had been about something personal, and the spine of one of Jim Kirk's books is peeking out of Pike's bag...but even if he'd said he considered her a friend, she wasn't about to ask if he was having a secret love affair with Starfleet's most eligible bachelor._ _

__Anyway, Pike isn't Jennifer's only source of information; Gaila's pretty good friends with Jim Kirk, and she _loves_ gossip. It would be a good excuse to comm her tonight; she probably would be Jennifer's friend, if Jennifer hadn't insisted on keeping her at arm's length._ _

__The trip to San Francisco Bay is quiet. Pike sets the speeder down near a little cove, and Jennifer follows him as he picks his way carefully across the pebbled shore. In the distance, Jennifer can see a huddle of people in Starfleet uniforms. Many of them are launching paper lanterns into the water._ _

__"What is this, sir?" she asks._ _

__"A memorial service," he answers, not taking his eyes off the ground._ _

__"For the Battle of Vulcan? It's only been six months, and I hadn't heard there was anything official."_ _

__"Oh, it's not official," Pike says. "No pompous grandstanding, no photo ops, no hollow platitudes. Admiral Sato's granddaughter arranged it for the Japanese day of the dead."_ _

__It takes them almost half an hour to reach the memorial site; uneven surfaces are still a challenge for Pike, and she has to grab his arm to steady him once or twice._ _

__"Get over it, sir," she says when he shoots her an exasperated look. "It's stupid to fall when there are people to hold you up."_ _

__"As long as you plan to take your own advice," he says mildly. They're standing at the edge of the crowd now, and he points at the line of people spread out at the water's edge. "Every one of them feels the same way you do, I guarantee it."_ _

__Jennifer nods slowly, and a nurse she recognizes from Starfleet Medical passes her a paper lantern. Lighting the candle in the stiff breeze takes her and Pike's combined efforts, and when it's done, she walks by herself to the water's edge. It's stupid, but when she bends over to release it, she can't let go. She knows it's more than a lantern; it's a commitment to let go of the people she's lost, and it feels like they deserve better from her than that._ _

__Somebody touches her shoulder lightly, and she looks up to see the same nurse who'd given her the lantern. He'd been a part of Pike's medical team, but she'd never caught his name._ _

__"It's okay," he says. "Letting go isn't the same as forgetting."_ _

__Jennifer nods, swallowing against a lump in her throat. She lifts her fingers up one by one. The lantern bobs up and down in the waves for a moment, bumping against her feet. Then the current carries it away._ _

__"Jason Andrews," the nurse says, extending his hand. "I lost my sister on the _Farragut._ "_ _

__"Jennifer Colt," she says. "All six of my suitemates. We'd been together since first year."_ _

__He passes her a small card printed on stiff paper. "A bunch of us go out for drinks on Wednesdays," he says. "The information is all here. You should come."_ _

__"Thank you," Jennifer murmurs. She tucks the card carefully into her pocket so it won't get lost._ _

__When she looks up, the sky is soft blue and sunlight sifts between the clouds, glinting off the water. She stands for a moment, listening to the sound of the waves and the breeze rustling the paper lanterns. Then she turns and walks slowly back to Pike._ _

__"Life really does go on, doesn't it?" she says._ _

__Pike looks down at his cane, and the metal braces that his uniform trousers can't quite conceal._ _

__"Awkwardly and messily," he says. Then he smiles. "But yes, it does go on."_ _


End file.
